Nomenclature
by There Out In The Darkness
Summary: To think that high school would actually reflect the years gone by, the years in which man didn't know any better, the years in which women were powerless. To think that high school would turn out to be divided by gender and sexuality roles. Bunny, Style, Creek.
1. Incubus, The

**DC: I do not own South Park. (Obviously)**

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Throughout our history as a people, school has always been an institution that reflects the rest of the world. Class systems, caste systems, cliques, factions, you name it. No one goes un-judged, and we just seem to blindly follow along. But given my current position, why should I complain?

I'm Kenny McCormick. I've died and been thrown back onto this ultramarine rock for seventeen years. Seventeen years of being impaled, incinerated, asphyxiated, trampled, bludgeoned, et cetera, et cetera. I've lived seventeen years in pain and agony. But let me not act like some faggy Goth kid. That's not what you came for.

High school is many things. It's a fairy tale, it's a nightmare. It's your wettest dream, it's your chastity belt. It's a crossroads, it's predestination. No one cares where you came from, only where you're going. High school is brighter than the iridescent day and darker than the inky black night. High school is a rainbow under the lash. A psychedelic sedative. An earthbound eagle.

Basically, where I stand is not within either of the two major cliques. I've taken a liking to my niche as the school's official prophylactic dispenser dispenser. Many say I've gone down on everyone, and I won't deny it. Bebe, Wendy, Stan and Kyle at the same time, Tweek, Craig, Token and Clyde, (who were confused at the time, but I help them clear things up) the entire cheerleading squad, and the list just goes on.

Scratch that, I do deny it, because there are some people on my "no-fly" list.

Cartman, anyone?

So I'm quite content with where I am, rather than being dragged into the patriarchal "boyfriends" and the matriarchal "girlfriends."

Make no mistake. The bottom halves of gay couples are included in the "girlfriends" clique. And, as expected, 99% of them have adopted feminine personalities. The only one who's retained his testosterone is Tweek, and I'm pretty sure he's turning. It's a bit difficult to ignore the occasional slight hip swing, the barrettes he wears in his hair from time to time, and his newfound obsession with hair care, despite keeping it messy. Long story short, he's becoming a poof.

Basically, this is a place where men are men, women are women, and men are women.

It pisses me off, really. To see all this mushy shit in the hallways. To see Stan carry Kyle around like luggage, or seeing their hands constantly locked. To walk in on a freshman couple making out in the bedroom. The air is tainted with a red fog of love, and it hurts my nose. But it's not my place to say a damn thing, and so I keep my mouth shut.

And you know, it wasn't always like this. It's just that this generation of students had to come in and spoil the bunch.

In middle school, everyone seemed to go through their "bi-curious" phase at once, save for Butters, who was bi-curious from the start. Most came out straight as a line, but a handful of us came out gay or versatile.

And don't get the wrong idea. I don't publicly rip on relationships like some whiny little bitch. I know how to keep it to myself. It's just that they' e been flying in my face, especially with Stan and Kyle.

Besides, what'll love get me? I get to have Butters, who was the school's official "virgin in the night" before I got to him, every other night. I have no commitments, nothing to lose, and I feel pretty damn great about it.

And now for our feature presentation.

It's late October. The 23rd, to be exact. There's a light snow outside, but nothing heavy yet. Period 3, Home Ec. It's my Senior year, and I've already fulfilled the quota for graduation, so I couldn't give less of a crap about my classes. I sit at my desk, an unflattering surface engraved with crudely-drawn genitals, as I guide my 2B graphite pencil along the surface of my Bristol drawing board. I've taken up two pastimes lately: smoking and drawing comics, the latter of which I'm pretty good at. Or so I've been told. I was admitted into the school's advanced art program, which the school district chooses to fund rather than repairs to the gym. I'm not at Stan Lee's level, but to be fair, I have a completely different art style. My characters are usually three-and-a-half heads high with egg-shaped eyes, triangular noses, and slightly blocky fingers. That doesn't mean that I don't pay attention to detail, it just means that it's not to be compared to many other action/adventure comics.

It's called _Minstrel_, it's about an Average Joe who has to slay one thousand dragons to have the hand of the Dragonslayer king's daughter, Minerva. But I digress...

Well, really, what does it matter when my ears filter Mrs. Patel's words into white noise anyway?

I'll tell you, drawing is the only thing keeping me from pressing the reset button on my day by jumping out the window. Luckily, the dulled metal bell resounds throughout the hallways. No more of Mrs. Patel's nasal whine of a voice for another twenty-four hours, despite the fact that I obviously wasn't listening. I delicately insert my Bristol into the portfolio section of my backpack, one that had taken two weeks of work at the local shoe store to afford. I throw on my bag and rush of the room, giving Butters a quick grope as I always do, which, just as always, causes him to tense up and blush, the skin under his large, round, true blue eyes contrasting the organs above by turning a scarlet-pink.

Butters is an amazing lay. It's so incredibly baffling to that see this gullible little nerd is better in the sack than almost anyone. But I think that he really doesn't know what a physical relationship is. He's always trying to get kisses and cuddles out of me, but I've told him time and time again that I don't want that "puppy love" crap. Will I allow him hugs? Yes. But he's just way too affectionate. I told him I don't want that. Can't he get the message?

It's lunchtime. The snow doesn't bother us. I stride through the bustling hallways and out the poorly-painted red metal doors onto the infinitely-expansive field of the high school. This rolling field, mostly whitened by the snow and littered with tables, trash cans, a quarter-mile track, a football field, a baseball diamond, and a basketball court, is now painted with high schoolers experiencing mid-day freedom. And, of course, everyone homes into the hangout spots of their own respective cliques. "Boyfriends" are entitled to the centers of physical fitness, while the "girlfriends" go to the tables and open grass.

This is the thing that made the group grow apart. I'm left to do my own thing, which is usually either flirting or smoking. Meanwhile, Stan and Cartman hang out with the guys who still act like they have a pair of balls, while Kyle and Butters hang out with the girls. (Despite the fact that Butters is single.) Honestly, over the past few years, Kyle has become the thing that pops into my mind when I hear the word "fag". He's become so effeminate. He has the stereotypical gay tone-of-voice. He has stereotypical gay mannerisms. And I swear to God, I will shoot myself in the head right there if he starts burping rainbows.

His popularity is only beaten by that of the "queen bee", who we all know as Stan's ex, Wendy Testaburger, who holds a secret grudge against Kyle for stealing her man. She's a bitch, though, so I don't sympathize. Tweek, as always, lingers about Milly in the very center of the field, staring off at the basketball court and gossiping while sipping coffee. Tweek thinks it's a secret that he has the hots for Craig, but literally everyone knows. Everyone except Craig, probably because he's an uncaring douche who seems to hate everything that casts a shadow. I don't get what Tweek sees in him. Craig has no obvious talents, no manners, no respect for others, and he's a pretty crappy lover, though that's a given.

It's so strange. It's strange that there's no being "in the closet." It's strange that no matter when you enter, you gravitate towards your clique like it's a social star. It's strange that school, a place that's a potential social sanctuary, has been split down the middle by matriarchal and patriarchal groups.

I decide that I should hang out with "Princess" Kyle today, even though it means being near Wendy for a few minutes, although she doesn't go off on you unless you say something that contradicts her views. I can see Kyle sitting against the table's leg on our highest hill. On his right sits Bebe, who is happily playing with one of the scarlet locks that's escaped the redheaded Jew's forest green eskimo hat. Red has found a comfortable spot reclining between Kyle's legs, using his crotch as a pillow. Wendy sits on top of the table, her legs on his torso. She's rambling on about something, probably something else that she can protest and picket. The ginger femboy is surprisingly listening to every word she's saying.

Though to be fair, Wendy is good at keeping her petty jealousy inconspicuous. Kyle doesn't suspect a thing because she's publicly been a saint to him, and they tend to share opinions on touchy subjects. I only know of her grudge from Bebe, who can't keep a secret for the lives of her entire family.

But I digress.

Anyway, apparently approaching Kyle sets off a silent alarm in Stan's head, because he grabs my shoulder as though giving a guy some warning just did the fucking _fandango_ out the door. I'm shocked enough to reflexively pull my hood closed, as though I'm a turtle afraid of a potential predator. I heave a sigh of relief and let it loosen a bit when I turn to see that it's him.

"Can I get a 'Hey, Kenny!' next time?" I say through my muffling parka hood.

Stan puts his hands up innocently and says, "So-rry, next time I'll make sure you don't have to clutch your pearls."

"Eat me."

"You only get that privilege once."

I roll my eyes. "Anyway, what do you want?"

He shows me the orange rubber sphere we all know very well as a basketball. "Wanna shoot some hoops with me, Craig and Cartman?"

I raise an eyebrow. "And where's Kyle in this equation?"

This time, Stan quirks his eyebrows. "Kyle."

I turn my head with a slightly distasteful squint. "Your _boyfriend_?"

Stan rolls his eyes. "I know who Kyle is, smartass. I mean why?"

That word causes my mouth to gape a bit. "What do you mean, 'why'? You two haven't played basketball in years!"

"Yeah, but he seems pretty happy talking to Wendy, so why disturb him?"

"Did you even ask him? What would make him happier than spending time with you?"

Stan stops and contemplates this for a minute. He scratches his head, saying, "Yeah... See, lately, Kyle's being a... brat..."

And this is the right moment for me to shut up, because I know exactly what he's talking about.

I don't know if Kyle's realized, but he's nicknamed "Princess" for a reason. He started out with his stupid rivalry with Cartman, and it all went downhill from there. When he and Stan became each other's property, the latter male, being a pussy, started catering to his every whim. Kyle's started whining whenever Stan hasn't been by his his side for an entire day, he's a jealous person, he gives people the business at the drop of a hat, he gets offended way too easily, and he'll trample basically anyone to please his boyfriend.

I think that the only reason I socialize with him is because of what we've been through in the past. That and the fact that I was the middle of a "Stan-Kenny-Kyle" sandwich. But again, I digress.

I finally speak up after a deafening awkward silence. "Maybe his competitive attitude will be just what you need." I suggest.

Stan raises an eyebrow. "For a lunchtime basketball game?"

I shrug. "He may go from giving you guys some hustle to encouraging you schoolboys to defend the barricade."

He chuckles, meaning that my Les Miserables reference is not lost on him.

"Alright, man, I'll ask my boo if he-"

I gag a bit.

"...You okay?"

"Sorry, you guys are just so gay, it's a little sickening."

Stan scowls and gives a slight nod, as though he's saying, "Oh that's real nice..."

I wave my hand in dismissal and lead the way to the "Princess".

You know, Kyle's ego isn't that undeserved, when you think about it. He works harder than anyone else when it comes to school, and he really keeps his figure in top condition for Stan, which ends up getting him frequent modeling jobs.

Let me tell you, Kyle really knows what he's doing. His skin is smooth and soft like a marshmallow. Puberty smiled upon him, because he got through with clear skin, perfect posture, and a scent of the fresh morning air. And then there's the icing on the cake, the crown jewel: that ass. A body part with a contained roundness that even the moon must worship. A behind that even "Bosom-Booty" Bebe envies.

And no, I don't digress.

We finally arrive at our destination where Kyle immediately embraces Stan.

"Stan! You came to hang out with us!" He squeals. It's evident that this is a rare occurrence during school hours, that they would actually hang out rather than be all "kissy-kissy" with each other. I would genuinely like someone to find an area on Kyle's body where Stan's lips haven't been.

You know, it's only when the two of them are together that you've realized how much they've changed physically. Seven years ago, Stan and Kyle were almost the same height and weight. Now, Stan is somewhere between lean and buff. He's got half a foot on his better half. He keeps most of his skin clear of hair, save for pubes and armpit hair. And by God, he's just about the fastest person in South Park. I've actually seen him beat out the bus by five minutes when the driver left him for not having exact change.

What's really changed is his eyes. They've become so sharp and focused. They're perfectly passionate and lovely when he's in a good mood, but piss him off, and he has a hawk-eye glare so sharp, you'll literally feel your soul being executed.

Kyle, on the other hand, has become a twig, basically. It's to be expected after half a decade of minimal physical education and keeping a healthy diet for Stan, though Stan probably doesn't care about his appearance. Kyle's Jew-fro hasn't changed, though. It's one of life's mysteries. That his, how the hat contains his hair so well.

Today, Stan wears a cool gray jacket with scarlet fur. Under it, he wears a white ribbed tee lined with blue. Below that is a pair of brown cargo pants and heavy, black boots.

Kyle is in his normal orange jacket, one that he's had resized since childhood. If he could part with the damn thing, he could save a lot of money and buy a new one. Beneath than ancient garment is a carrot orange tee with a brown thermal undershirt under it. He also wears skinny black jeans and brown fur boots.

Over Kyle's shoulder, Stan gives a sheepish wave to Wendy, who gives an obligated wave back. She wears a long lavender coat with a black turtleneck and tan pants tucked into black rain boots. I hear her new beret cost a fortune. Designer apparel or some shit.

I look over to Bebe, who gives a light wave and a wink, to which I reply to with a wink and a smirk. It's amazing we've kept such a good friendly relationship after our encounters in the bedroom. All forty-three of them. She's my regular right after Butters. Thankfully, she doesn't want a committed relationship from me.

Bebe, by the way, is wearing a red coat, pink pants, snow leopard-print earmuffs, and brown boots.

Red pouts at the loss of her crotch-pillow, though she quickly gets over it when she gets up and offers a smoke to Bebe and me. I shrug, holding back my enthusiasm, and I think that Bebe does the same.

Before our departure to find an unsupervised area, from what I can hear from their conversation, Kyle accepted Stan's offer. Wendy took it upon her self to accept it, and I'm sure that Stan's too much of a pussy to refuse.

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Hi guys, this is my first fanfiction. I want the story to be deep and interesting, so any constructive criticism you have is appreciated.


	2. Scar, The

**Aaand now we have Butters' point of view. I hope I did it right.**

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Oh, hamburgers!

Kenny's off smoking. Again. Doesn't he know that smoking's bad for him? I mean, I know it's none of my business, it _is _his body, but it's such a nasty habit. At least I think so. I've tried smoking. Bummed a cig from Wesley. Wesley's my friend. Actually, he's everyone's friend. He's the cool Asian kid, athletic, wealthy, wise, he's almost as cool as Token. But no one's as cool as Token.

Anyway, Wesley's always so optimistic, which is weird, since he has lung cancer. It's not 'cuz of his smoking, it's because he got trapped in his burning house back in Urayasu. It was a mostly wood house, so there was a whole lot of smoke. The doctors told him that he's okay for now, but lately he's been clutching his chest and wobbling everywhere.

"Staring at the longhair again, loverboy?" This sudden sting of words brings me to leap from my seat in the freezing snow. I wheel around to see that it's just Wesley. I sigh and scratch my head, saying, "Sorry. I zoned out."

You might be wondering about the "longhair" bit. Kenny can't afford to get haircuts often. Now his hair falls down to his shoulders. It's usually dirty and matted and sometimes covers his eyes. I like it like that.

Wesley plops himself down next to me. With a pointed digit, he prods me in my side, to which I react with a squirm.

"So come on. Out with it. What's on your mind? Tell your Uncle Wesley."

I raise my eyebrows. "I'm a month older than you."

"Semantics."

"I think you're using that wrong."

"Oh, I don't think I am."

"Well, if you say so."

"So? Out with it."

"What?"

"What's on your mind. Although I'm guessing it's Hello Kitty, Kenny and 'ah-tahs'." He taunts.

"Two out'a three ain't bad." I snort.

Wesley scoffs with a satisfied smirk and turns to his brown briefcase, from which he unveils a thick brown book. The thing looks ancient; it's made of a shriveled leather, and its pages are chipped and yellowed. There's a golden engraving on the front. It's in kanji. I can recognize it from what he's taught me. It translates to something like "Wisteria Flame and the Thousand Embers." I tilt my head in confusion.

"What's that?" I ask.

"It's a gift," he replies, shoving the book into my arms, "it was found by construction workers on the lot where my house was and they shipped it to my parents, who gave it to me. You see, before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, I think it was about a day before, my great-grandfather, Kento Takenaka, had just finished writing a 1,001 page long composition consisting of nearly every instrument he knew. This man was the musical pride of Hiroshima; the greatest composer around. Luckily, when he decided to submit his creation, he had to visit various companies outside of town. His car broke down as it usually did, so he had to stay at a local inn. During the whole ordeal, he kept that book at his side all the time, even when he was sleeping. The next morning brought the warning siren, so he and the inn owners had to retreat to the basement. They survived, but nearly everyone he knew and loved was dead. He was so traumatized, he didn't even orchestrate the piece until thirty years later, and it was only performed once. I've heard that it's one of the best musical compositions ever written. Every instrument and every musician is positioned in such a way that there is not a part of the room filled with its melody. But it brought up so many painful memories that Kento decided to give it to my grandfather to store away somewhere safe. And now, I'm giving it to you."

Listening to the whole thing, no blinking, only occasional breaths, I almost fall over.

"Why're you giving me such a treasure?" I gasp.

"Well, the main instrument's a harp, for one."

Normally, this answer is enough. I've been practicing the harp since I was eleven. It calms me down when my world's turned upside-down. I think I'm pretty good at it. People tell me they feel like they just stepped through the pearly gates of Heaven or that a wizard must have crafted the immaculate instruments that are my hands. You don't know how often I get that second one. Heck, my music even soothes Dad when I make him angry.

After a moment of silence, I finally say, "That doesn't answer why…"

Wesley sighs. "Alright, you want the truth? I'm dying."

I chuckle nervously and dismissively. "No you're not, Wes, the doctor said you're gonna make it."

"What does _he_ know? I literally feel my life slipping away. Only willpower lets me even stick around." He gets up and starts to slowly and weakly pace around me. "And now, in the last days of my life, I want to hear the fruit of my great-granddad's labor."

"Wesley, you're not dying. I know you're not. _Joudan janai wa yo!_" I say with loose Japanese,

"Butters…"

"Wesley, just stop it! You'll be fine. Look, there's no need for this. I mean, you can live a long time for this."

"Please, just, if you can, try to find as many musicians as you can, because my family and I return to Tokyo in two weeks, and I don't think I'm coming back. We're rich, I could probably get _10,000_ people to Tokyo, damn 1,000."

I stand from where I sat, trembling from head to toe, clenching my fists. I say, "Wesley… will you look me in the eye and tell me that you're—"

"You heard me the first time, bro."

Wesley stumbles away from our grim conversation. I clasp my hands over my mouth, wishing to unheard what I've just heard.

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After spending the rest of the lunch period in the fetal position, trying to deny it all, trying to make it go away, I lumber back into the building with everyone else. Wesley can't be dying, I mumble repeatedly as I jostle against the crowd groggily. He's not. He's just not.

Clyde tries to stop me on the way to ask me what's wrong. I already don't like him, but that's not my reason for shoving him away. The river of students around me is a blur. I feel depressed. I feel nauseous. I feel angry. I feel feelings I can't explain. But I have to get to Advanced Orchestra on time, otherwise Maestro'll have to call my father. I make it inside the band hall before the bell, don't ask me how. Inside is Maestro, our balding, thin, hook-nosed, kind-spirited band teacher, awaiting my arrival by my gold cherrywood harp, circa 1798. It's an antique I found due to a misprice in a pawn shop.

Maestro immediately rushes over to me with a worried look on his face and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Butters, honey," he calls everyone "Honey", "Clyde told me you were violated by a pole! It doesn't appear so, but are you alright?"

I shoot a glare over to Craig, who sticks his tongue out at me. Stupid Clyde with his stupid acoustic.

I shake my head and reply, "I'm fine, Maestro, I just need to do a warm-up."  
He nods and strides off to Tweek, our star choir boy, who was supposed to rehearse "I Dreamed A Dream" for both this class and Advanced Theater. (Yes, he will be playing Fantine.)

I lumber over to my harp, whose every groove and resistance is imprinted in my mind. I sit myself down on my stool, one with a nice, cushiony, cool gray seat. I need something that'll take my mind off Wesley.

Wait, I know. It was the first time I went to a sleepover at Kyle's house. We played a Legend of Zelda game on his GameCube. It was such a serene moment, to be surrounded by friends who're full of life and happiness and with that, my fingers start to dance along the strings. As "Great Fairy Fountain" ascends, II close my eyes and escape to another world. It's not that different from this one, mind you. It's the school hallway, but the floors are covered in a thick fog. Itty bitty fairies dance in the air, little balls of light and glitter. When I look closer, I can see that they're my friends. Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Token, Tweek; they're all fluttering about to the gentle tune of the harp.

And then comes the pinnacle. Out of the fog at the end of the hall, I can see a human figure. It still has fairy wings, transparent and glowing as ever, but the rest is human. I look closer. It's Kenny. And he's naked.

The fog covers his lower half, which is a darn shame, although it would probably give me wood in real life, and that would be embarrassing. I lean into my harp, letting my fingers prance along the strings. I listen closely to the skin of Kenny's bare feet pitter-pattering with an echo that dances alongside every note of every fragile string. His naked form halts itself inches away from me. A smile that was once on my face quickly falls when he says, "Leopold." and places his fingers on the strings. They turn black and cold. I'm smacked by a sensation of fear, a world of darkness and cold. The fog turns red, the once lively fairies fall to their deaths. Kenny plucks a string, and with its release, the harp becomes a question mark that tears open my chest, which becomes a black hole and-

"Butters!"

I'm jostled from my twisted reverie when Tweek shakes me with a trembling hand. You know, I'm glad he did that. I'm pretty sure that I was gonna end up in Hell somehow.

I'm not sure if you would have guessed, but Tweek is my buddy. Cuddle buddy, that is. The both of us need cuddles to function, and with him, it's amazing. He's so warm and jittery and mousy and radiant, it's like he's a pet. Cuddling him keeps my mind away from wanting to be the object of Kenny's affection. It's a platonic relationship. Tweek has a thing for Craig. He kind of defected from Craig's Gang by the time we hit Freshman year, but his feelings for Craig seem to cause him turmoil. And Tweek doesn't need any more turmoil, he already kinda jumps at anything that moves.

"What's the matter?" I groan.

His mouth drops. "What's the—You were playing that song for fifteen minutes straight, man! We called you, like, a hundred times! Oh Jesus, what if that music put you to sleep and you didn't wake up!?" he cries while grabbing his hair frantically.

This is the downside to his company. I have to keep him calm whenever something happens or he'll panic and go off like a bundle of C4. One time, he had such a crazy nervous breakdown at the hardware store, he ended up dismantling every single piece of machinery in the aisle to prevent the doomsday scenarios in his head. I was grounded for a week just for _being _there. Stan and Kyle kinda became iffy about bringing Tweek anywhere anymore.

I swiftly grasp him and pull him towards me. He presses his chest against mine as I cradle his head on my shoulder. I can feel his rabbit heart slowing down with the comforting embrace.

"It's okay. I'm fine. Everyone's fine." I say in a hushing voice. "So… did you need something?"

I can kind of feel him falling asleep, so I shake him a bit and let him go.

"Right, sorry." He mumbles apologetically. "Maestro needs you to assist the violins. I finished my vocal warm-ups. You know your cue, right?"

"Yeah, six seconds after 'Then it all went wrong.'"

Tweek bites his lower lip and nods his head vigorously. He strides over to the center of the room.

The school's been big on _Les Miserables _for years. Most people were able to relate to Eponine and Javert, since they were the most human characters. The school's running the stage musical production next week. That's why some students have to work on their singing and acting at once, like Tweek.

It's kinda weird that Advanced Orchestra, Art, and Theater have never been allowed to meat as groups. In fact, there are some Theater students Tweek hasn't met because they've had private acting training sessions since day one, including the leading actor, whoever's playing Jean Valjean.

The other required musicians position themselves on either side of me. On the violins, viola, and mandolin are Erica, Samantha, Jimmy, Danny and Clyde, respectively. The other students watch attentively. I place my fingers on the harp as Maestro signals Tweek in. He begins in a magnificent and superhuman falsetto.

"_There was a time when men were kind_

_And their voices were soft_

_And their words inviting_

_There was a time when love was blind_

_And the world was a song_

_And the song was exciting_

_There was a time…"_

He draws a deep breath and his twitching and jittering stop.

"_Then it all went wrong."_

Singing is just about the only thing that'll get the little spaz to stop twitching. I guess he was born to sing. Anyway, now's our cue. The violins, the viola, and finally, Clyde and me.

"_I dreamed a dream in time gone by_

_When hope was high, and life worth living_

_I dreamed that love would never die_

_I dreamed that God would be forgiving"_

I think he's singing from his heart. Actually, I'm sure of that in this verse, because it's like he's letting something out, something that would blow the crowd away on opening night.

"_As they turn your dream, to sha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ame!"_

Tweek's singing is always beautiful, but this isn't normal. I wonder what's happened.

"_And still I dream he'll come to me_

_That we will live the years together_

_But there are dreams that cannot be_

_And there are storms we cannot weather."_

Tweek's crying. He's a bit too into this, I think.

"_I had a dream my life would be_

_So different from this hell I'm living_

_So different now from what it seemed_

_Now… life has killed the dream… I dreamed…"_

Our average-sized audience applauds with voices ringing. Tweek sniffles and quickly wipes away his tears. Suddenly it's all just closed eyes and a toothy grin..

Wait, what?

What just happened? This is not the boy who, just seconds ago, was bawling like the innocent prostitute, Fantine. While everyone else claps for him, I wince at his sudden mood swing. No matter how good an actor and singer he is, those tears were definitely real. Or maybe I'm just bad at determining this kinda thing.

"Tweek, honey, that was sensational!" Maestro titters. "You remembered to learn your parts for 'Come To Me', 'At the End of the Day' and 'Fantine's Arrest', right?"

Tweek's eyes illuminate at the sound of this. "Does this mean that I'm finally gonna meet our Valjean?" He starts looking around and nervously chewing away at his fingernails. "Oh God, wait, what if he hates me? What if he's a bad actor, what if he's too _good _to act with me!? It's too much pressure, man!" he squeaks.

Maestro places a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be fine, honey, just be yourself. You wouldn't have gotten into this program without doing so."

Tweek quickly nods and begins to fix the barrette on his outermost lock of hair. I have no idea why he wears those things. Maybe they give some order to his otherwise messy appearance. Maybe they're conduits to let out most feminine urges he gets.

I can see him struggling to stand still, a few of his normal "Ah's" and "Oh God's" get the better of him.

"Chelsea, send in Tucker." Maestro says to his assistant, who bounds out of the band hall to the Bud Springley Auditorium across the hall.

Hm, that's weird. The only Tuck in this school graduated last year.

Wait a minute-

And, of course, reality brings the train into the station when Craig walks into the room, dressed in Valjean's vest and collared shirt.

Craig Tucker, the one we all know as a talentless hack. Craig Tucker, he kid who couldn't give a crap about another human being, is playing Jean Valjean, who devoted his life to raising a stranger's child. Craig Tucker, whose face is drained of color and nearly turns white when he spots Tweek and me.

I don't even say a word. I'm speechless. I turn to Tweek, who, for once, is completely motionless. Craig opens his mouth to say something, but retreats to a silent embarrassment. Tweek, in return, squeaks loudly and flees the room.

Oh hamburgers, now Craig scared him off. He could have told Tweek about this! I can kinda understand that Craig has a tight social circle and he would want to keep it between him and his gang, but he could have at least told Tweek. He _knew_ Tweek is in theater. I know this whole situation may seem weird to you, but it's better to not question it.

I start to run down after him, but I stop mid-run and say to Craig, "How much more do you plan on screwing up?"

He flips me off, which could mean anything from Craig, but I think this time, it means "What are you even talking about?" I think the middle finger is his second language. Or first, since he seems to have a hard time knowing how to interact with people. He flips the bird to anyone and everyone. I don't see why he even has a mouth.

I jog out after Tweek. Sadly, he didn't get very far. He tripped by the water fountain, so now he's hugging his hurting knee in the corner. I need to make him feel comfortable so we can get things back on track.

"_Papa, Papa, I do not understand. Are you alright; why did you go away?"  
_

Tweek looks up and smiles just a bit. But when he opens his mouth, just when we think he's gonna get his reverie back, another voice sings in its place.

"_Oh, Cosette, am I forgiven now? Thank God, Thank God, I've lived to see this day!"_

The voice isn't all that great. It doesn't flow like Tweek's, and it's nasal and posh, but there's an operatic emotion to it that gives me shivers. It should be easy to tell who it is, but my mind's blank of identity. All I can imagine is a person drawing his last breaths after a life of suffering and hardship.

I turn around, and there's Craig, standing in the doorway with his arms folded. Anything else that can surprise me today is nothing but gravy. Tweek looks up at Craig with wide eyes.

"Mind telling me what the hell that was all about?" Craig buzzes.

Tweek looks back down at his feet. "You didn't tell me you were in Advanced Theater. I didn't even see you on orientation day."

Craig shrugs. "I was immediately sent to another room for private rehearsal. I came in late. And did you really _expect_ me to?"

I think I can hear Tweek's heart drop. "Wh—what?" he stutters.

"Well, yeah, when's the last time we freaking hung out? You kinda just drifted away from us. Clyde and Token miss you. I don't care, really."

Oh boy. I think Tweek's gonna have a mental breakdown. Craig really did it this time, although it would seem like he's not really doing anything. Best-case scenario, Tweek cries for a week and then goes back to dating girls. I mean, I think he still does like girls. We all know how everyone acted when Bebe's boobs came in.

I guess my intuition's weaker than I thought. Either that, or Tweek's just straight-up crazy. He's just sitting there with a grin on his face and his normal twitch.

"Really? They miss me?"

What.

Tweek is now officially the strangest boy I know. Maybe all that coffee just wiped out his ability to have the same emotion for more than a minute.

"Yeah, they're always looking at that empty fourth seat and frowning. Why don't you hang out with us anymore? Was it something Clyde said?" Craig asks curiously.

"Hey!" Clyde cries out from the room, which leaves me wondering how the heck he heard Craig mention his name from fifty feet away.

Craig, without a single care to this phenomenon, rolls his eyes.

"No, it's…" Tweek trails off. I know he can't confess to Craig now, but what can he say?

"It's… what?" Craig asks, squinting a bit.

Tweek starts to frantically run his hands through his hair. His face seizes up. "It'… It's… Gah! It's too much pressure, man!"

There's the Tweek I know.

An enlightened expression spreads across Craig's face, like he just discovered why M. Night Shymalan keeps making movies.

"Tweek, are you… gay?"

Tweek removes his hands from his hair slowly.

"Pass."

"There are only two questions, it's one or the other.

Tweek sighs. "The answer's no. Or maybe it's yes. Or maybe it's nothing. I don't know. There are just things I'm wary of and things I'm less wary of, I guess."

"That answered sucked." Craig boos.

"But it's an answer."

Craig flips him off.

"So that's why you left. You had homosexual feelings and you didn't feel comfortable surrounded by guys all the time. No, that can't be it, because you still hang out with bottoms."

And then comes another enlightened look.

"Wait… did you leave because you have a crush on—"

We both look at him in anticipation.

"—Clyde?"

Despite Tweek's mortified expression, I can't help put fall over on my side and laugh. Where do you get these guys!? Tweek whacks me in the gut, so I stop for his sake and for mine.

"What? Am I wrong? Is it Token?"

I burst out laughing again, even when Tweek shakes me by the neck.

"…Jason?"

"I'm gonna pee my pants!" I wail. Tweek shoves me into the fountain, which, due to the impact of my head to metal, is my cue to shut up.

"Just forget it, man." The blonde sighs.

I have no idea how Craig can be so stupid.

"No argument here. Anyway, why don't you meet up with us at Clementino's afterschool Monday?"

"Why Monday?" I chime in.

Craig squints at me. "Because today's Friday, dick-munch." He snaps.

I'd normally give him the business, since he's just as big a queer as anyone else, but I feel too stupid to do so.

"…Sure, I'll meet you." Tweek says.

The brunette looks away and scoffs. "Yeah, great, now can we go back inside? We've wasted half a period thanks to your little episode."

Tweek nods and props himself up against the fountain. By impulse, I sing, "_And remember the truth that that once was spoken…"_

The two spontaneously help me bring it on home.

"_To love another person is to see the face of God."_

The three of us chuckle at our fit of nerdiness.

* * *

Sixth period rolls around. Our last twenty minutes of fifth period were filled with Craig dictating Tweek's heavenly singing to the point where the poor blonde broke down in tears. Is Craig deaf or just stupid? Or maybe he's just a dick. I'll go with all of the above. I swear, I've never heard "Come To Me" so butchered in my life. Craig's just gonna keep hurting Tweek, isn't he? Is he _trying _to do it?

Thankfully, both Tweek and I have a free sixth period, so we usually use it to cuddle in the corner of the library, concealed behind a row of bookshelves, so we can talk about our problems. Hardly anyone goes back there; it's the Religion section.

Tweek nuzzles his face into my baby blue sweater. He stopped crying a few minutes ago, but he's still sniffling against my chest. Other than those sounds, we sit in silence until,

"Butters, am I attractive?"

Whoa. I don't really know how to answer this, it's a really surprising question, but I'm just forced to ask, "What?"

"Am I attractive, man?"

Silence. It's not like Tweek isn't attractive. Heck, he's downright sexy. But he's sexy in his own way.

He's skinny, but also a bit broad-shouldered, so his shirts don't usually snap to his torso shape, which just adds to the mess that he already looks like. He wears straight pants that are one length to long, and his sneakers are a size too big, so They're disproportionate to his body. He's too jittery to properly button his shirt, and he always has at least one shoe untied. He's mane is messy, but they form almost perfect bangs over his forehead. His eyes are beady, but they widen like a puppy's when he's really happy or sad. He's got baggy eyelids and slightly plump cheeks. His nails are short and often-chewed nails, and his arms are thin.

So my answer is: "In a mousy sort of way, yes."

Why the heck did I say that?

Tweek actually isn't mad, though. He's panicking.

"Mousy? Oh God, what if he thinks I'm ugly!? What if he thinks I'm creepy, what if he thinks I'm crazy!?" He starts grabbing his hair again, so I grab his arms and try to hush him. Before I can answer him, though, Kenny swings around the corner of the bookshelf with a nudie mag in hand. He would have noticed us anyway, but my little yip at his sudden appearance just speeds up the process. He smirks his sly smirk, the one that I love, and drops onto his bum next to us. Tweek doesn't notice him until he's given a smack on the butt, which causes him to jump and knee my crotch. I mutter random curses under my breath and clutch my manhood. Kenny pulls a Pop-Tart out of his pocket.

"What's up, assbutts?" He says while stuffing a quarter of the treat into his mouth.

"Tweek thinks he isn't attractive." I say.

"What? Why?"

"Because Craig's being a real dick."

Kenny scowls. "Ugh, Craig. The only reason I ever fucked him was because his libido was making him go through a hell of a mood swing." He ruffles Tweek's hair. "Don't worry, dude. You're pretty fucking hot. Craig's just an asshat."

Tweek rubs his eyes and nods at Kenny, who smacks his ass again, and again, the jump and the knee.

"Stop doing that!" We both shriek, followed by being shushed by random people in the library and Kenny throwing his hands up.

"How would you like it if I did that to you, man?" Tweek whispers loudly.

"You saying you wanna give me a spanking?" Kenny suggests with a seductive tone while tilting his rear to him.

I almost take him up on this offer out of pure impulse when Tweek rolls his eyes and says, "Way to pervert the perverted act of slapping an ass."

Kenny chuckles. "I'm here to please. Bebe's into that kind of thing, y'know."

I'm not exactly surprised, but I'll bite. "Really?" I ask. "How'd you find that out?" Bebe's pretty adamant about physical relationships, I didn't think she's reveal a kink to just anyone.

"I gave her a pat too hard one time and she moaned. She ended up telling me that she likes being spanked."

"She never told me anything like that." Says Tweek.

"You banged Bebe before?" I ask.

"Yeah. We were at a party at Cartman's. She was drunk. I think she was. I don't know, I was drunk."

Kenny and I outrageously laugh at the confused Tweek, and again, we're shushed by the folks of the library. Kenny picks off a piece of his Pop-Tart and offers it to Tweek.

"No way, man! I don't want anything that was in your pants! You might have STDs!" He squeaks.

"Dude, if I have STDs, you have STDs." Kenny replies, and, for no apparent reason, makes fish lips. Tweek follows and does the same with his lips.

They simultaneously pull open their pants to inspect their manhood.

"Clean?"

"Clean."

"Butters, you clean?"

I hadn't thought about myself. I go down on Kenny every other night. I unbutton my jeans and pull open my boxers. Clean, I nod.

I glance down at Kenny's magazine. There's a frizzy-afroed woman on the front. She's wearing a buffalo-skin toga and pumps made of bones. I'm not even gonna ask what that's all about. Of course, Tweek does.

"_Freaky Fuzz_ _Monthly_? Didn't that get discontinued this year after a huge lawsuit from some hippie group?"

Okay, not at all what I was expecting him to say.

"Yeah, this is from December last year…" The conversation just kind of trails off in my ears, because my train of though takes off somewhere else. Doesn't Kenny have Calculus right now? Oh, that's right, Mr. Marx is out today. Kenny just came here to look at hot chicks, I guess. Which reminds me, we're having sex tonight. It's not a big deal anymore, though. I'm in, we do it, I'm out just as fast. Not much talking after, no cuddling, he just has me put on my clothes and bolt. Why is Kenny so cold? What does he have against affection? Why can't he like me the way I like him? The big jerk. I know I shouldn't think that of him, but I can't help it. I wanna tell him how I feel, but I don't wanna ruin what we already have.

Aw, shucks, maybe I should keep it all to myself.

"…and that's why Joan Rivers would make a great Ursula." Is what tunes in when I start paying attention again.

I don't know what the fuck's going on.

Kenny stands up and pats me on the head, saying, "Well, period seven starts in a few minutes, I've gotta go to P.E."

How long did I zone out for?

"Don't let that support beam fall on you again, dude." Tweek squawks. Kenny smirks and trots off, saying, "Butters, remember the shoe store!"

Oh right, I forgot. The days when Kenny and I bang are the days when he has to work, so I stick around during his shift. He works at a local shoe shop. It's usually dusty and dark and musky. It's also awful quiet, and the main customers are old folks and kids. The floor's covered with an old maroon carpet that needs a good vacuuming. Dad lets me go there afterschool as long as I get my homework done during. Kenny really likes the place. I can understand that. Better to work there than busy, noisy McDonald's. Dad almost got me to work there, but luckily Mom got me a weekend job at the local vegan supermarket, High-n-Mighty.

Oh, shoot. I have to get to Studio Art. I leap up, wave Tweek goodbye, and stride out of the library into the hallway.

* * *

Ms. McGrover isn't here yet. There's an awful lot of whispering. In fact, the only ones who aren't whispering are Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Wendy. Cartman's arguing with Wendy about girls' rights in Vietnam, while Kyle's reminiscing with Stan about his childhood dream of being a famous basketball player.

Token, who's sitting next to me and was just whipering with Red, leans in towards me and whispers, "Hey, did you hear about Style?"

Yeah, we call Stan and Kyle "Style" as a couple, like Brangelina or GoreBearPig.

I shake my head. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah, man! Something good. They bought a house and they're moving in together."

If eyes can sparkle, I'm sure mine are diamonds right now.

"What? Where are they going? They're not leaving South Park, are they?"

"They're not going far. They both got scholarships for University of Denver, so they're moving to the city. They're moving in next Saturday. They'll finish their year here and graduate, and then it's DU for them."

I scratch my chin.

"How did they afford it?"

"Early scolarships, Kyle's royalties for his bestseller, "On the Mind of a Bigot", their salary, investments, saved up birthday money, and the 10k Stan got from taking down a guy who conveniently happened to be a state-wide known cutpurse."

Wow, they make a lot more money than I thought.

"Just don't let Wendy find out. I mean, she'll find out eventually, but let her find out on her own. She'll probably flip the fuck out, probably in a fit of jealousy or over-protection for her old flame and try to take control of the whole operation. Soon they'd end up living in a pink apartment with Wonder Woman and 'We Can Do It!' posters." He snickers.

I nod and glance over at the girl in question, who glances back at the mention of her name. Seriously, why does everyone have acute hearing today?

"Is anyone throwing them a going away party?" I ask.

"I am," Jimmy, who I didn't even notice is across the table, interrupts, "Because we all kn-kn-kn-kn-kn-kn-know what happened the last time Cartman did it."

That's right, Cartman threw Kyle a going away party and didn't even invite him.

"It's on F-F-F-F-Friday. Next week." He adds.

"I'll bring 'em the best gift that I can." I reply.

I shriek when something tugs my hair and jerks my head back. Token points and snickers at whoever's behind me.

"Moo." A voice groans from behind me. I know that voice. No matter how weak and pained it's getting, I always know that monotone, mature voice. It's Wesley. He's nibbling on my hair like a cow. I lean my head back and can almost look him in the eyes.

"'Sup." He says.

I purse my lips. "You'd best move onto greener pastures." He spits my hair out and brushes it against the rest. Token and Jimmy fist bump him. Wendy pulls away from her argument and gives him a shy wave.

"Hey, dude." Cartman calls out with his awkward drawl.

"Hey." "Yo." Kyle and Stan greet him, respectively.

Soon, the entire classroom becomes a cacophony of greetings to everyone's favorite Asian kid. Wesley sits opposite Token at my side. He hacks a bit into his sleeve.

"Ms. McGrover still isn't here?" He asks.

"Not yet." I sigh. She should have been here by now. She has a different classroom for sixth period, and it's across the school, but it's seven minutes past the late bell.

He leans over to view Token. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you: did you get over your man-boner for Clyde yet?"

Token rolls his eyes. "Piss off."

"Love you too." Wesley coos. He blows a smooch to Token, who catches it in his hand and sarcastically presses it to his heart.

Token's confused crush on Clyde is a touchy subject. It subsided pretty quickly. Clyde took his advances too seriously and started avoiding him like the plague. Which is weird, because if they both screwed Kenny at once, you'd think that either of them would be so resistant to homosexuality. Anyway, Token ended up telling him that it was just a weird crush; he's not gay, the two just hang out a bit too much, and Clyde just needed to calm the fuck down.

Wesley turns back to me. "So… about earlier…"

Why do I keep forgetting everything today?

I cock my head in the other direction. "What about it?" I mumble.

"I left something out. The grandchildren of the musicians who played in the original concert, about 90% of them became musicians themselves. Crazy right? Now, how many people are in the Music program?"

I look up while counting on my fingers for a few minutes.

"Ninety-three." I finally submit.

"Our family has the musicians' families' contact info. My parents were thinking that if I found a musician, they and the rest of Takenaka Inc. could get a hold of thme. Them plus the students makes almost 1,000.

"Give it a rest, Wesley. You're not dying. It's not your time yet."

Wesley stirs in his seat. "What?"

"And even if you were dying, do you think I'm gonna just play you to your death? What kind of bullshit is that? How can you ever ask anyone to do something like that?"

Token perks up at the sound of the word "death".

"What are you talking about?" He asks skeptically.

I roll my eyes. "Wesley thinks he's dying. The doctor said he'll be fine, so he'll be fine, right?"

Token squints at me. I raise an eyebrow. He sighs and shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and walks over to Wesley. I'm confused, but he proves his implied point when he raises and reveals Wesley's blood-stained sleeve.

"Told you." Wesley says.

I shake my head. "No! No no no! You're not! Just because you two think so doesn't mean-"

"I kn-n-n-n-now." Says Jimmy.

"I do too." Chimes in Wendy.

"It's kinda obvious." Adds Cartman.

Kyle looks down and Stan averts his gaze. Why are they all acting like this? Why?

"Literally everyone knows, dude. It's just that we've come to terms with death in this crazy town. We're sad, but there's no point in moping about something that hasn't happened yet." Token says. He turns back to Wesley. "What's all this about music?"

And Wesley explains the situation to him. Ms. McGrover still isn't here. Token turns back to me.

"And you didn't accept."

I shake my head. He sighs.

"Look, man, I can't force you to do something like this, but at least think it over," he pleads, "before Monday comes. Do it for Wesley."

I nod lightly.

A whole period and the teacher didn't even show up. I sit outside on the steps until Kenny comes. He can't afford a car, so I normally sit on the back of his bike when he rides. It's a bit embarrassing sometimes. Some of the jocks from North Park throw trash at me from their cars. One even rear-ended us once. I could've told Kenny it was coming if it wasn't for my left eye. It throws off my depth perception since he hit me with that ninja star.

Still, though, I like the bike rides. It's the closest I get to cuddling him.

I try to greet Kenny with a hug, but he refuses so I shove my hands into my pockets.

"How was P.E.?" I ask, trying to drown the awkwardness of the situation.

"Ariel puked when she found a possum under the bleachers, so we got to leave early, which gave Bebe enough time to give me a tuggy in the locker room." He replies.

I shrug. "What do you think Mrs. Santiago made us today?"

"Mmm… I hope she made her peach cobbler again." He moans, slurping back his drool.

Mrs. Santiago, by the way, is Kenny's boss's wife. Mr. Santiago is really nice, but the missus herself is a saint. She runs a bakery next door, and she always has something waiting for us. She's a plump old lady, sometimes frail, but otherwise lively. She always has her hair in a bun, and jowls that jiggle when she speaks. She has thick, circular spectacles on her eyes, but in the middle of it all, there's a button nose. She usually wears red cat-themed sweater, probably because she loves her tabby cat, Correa. When we're with her, we call her _Abuela_. Her grandchildren passed away in a mass shooting a few years ago, so it comforts her.

Mr. Santiago is a bit more stoic, but he has a soft heart. He has a thick, whitish, bushy moustache under a hook nose and a crown of silver hair. He's always wearing an apron and bed slippers. The man, I can tell, was built like a colossus in his younger days, and you'd swear that on the inside, he's a tiger wearing human skin.

* * *

Picture it. April 13th, 6:00 P.M. A strip of stores on the outskirts of town. Closing time in half-an-hour.

"Kenny, a customer needs a pair of size 6 men's Carrion sneakers for her boy. It is too high up, I cannot reach with my back." Said Mr. Santiago to Kenny.

"Got it, _jefe_." He replied.

I overheard this conversation from across the room. I sat on the counter, swinging my legs while I did my Mandarin homework. Believe it or not, Wing's my teacher, and a darn good one at that.

I started to vocalize my answers to see if they made sense. "_Ni xi bu xi huan da bang qiu? Ni xi huan shen me yun dong? Ni xi huan zhong guo cai ma?"_

"_Xi huan, wo xi huan zhong go cai." _Abuela replied. I spun around to see her fiddling with something behind the counter.

"_Ni hui shuo hanyu ma?" _I asked.

She nodded. "I learned back in Chihuahua. Many, many Chinamen visiting from America that winter. I learned what I needed to know."

Abuela always tells us tales from her early life. They're pretty interesting. Changed my whole views on Mehee—excuse me—Mexicans.

I heard the bell above the door ring. I looked over. It was a tall man in a black beanie, black jacket, and pants. There was something tucked into his boot, but I couldn't tell what it was.

The boss eyed the man and said, "Kenny, I'm going to use the head, okay?"

Kenny nodded and walked into the aisles in search of his customer. The man began to tail him. I rushed off of the counter into the aisle. Kenny could have been in trouble. Kenny turned the corner. So did the man. With my heart racing and in my throat, so did I. I can't tell you how relieved I was to see him asking where the dress shoes are.

I slinked back over to the counter. I sat there for a few minutes watching Abuela knitting her cat a sweater. The man materialized in front of me with a shoebox in hand.

"I'll take these. How much?"

"$89.99."

"I'll take it all." He chuckled, removing whatever was in his boot.

"Pardo-" I froze when all I could see in front of me was the barrel of his gun.

Only small peeps escaped my mouth. Abuela started a shriek that was interrupted when the man turned his gun to her. The both of us threw our hands up. He gestured towards the register and repeated, "I'll take it all."

Abuela frantically opened the register and shoved the tray at the man. The robber winced at the few 20s, 10s, and 5s.

"Where's the rest?"

"That is all!" Abuela cries.

"Where's the safe?"

"There is none!"

He glanced at me.

"I'll take the boy."

I look around to see if he's talking about someone else, some other boy that I've missed. Abuela was silent for a moment.

"Oh, no, no, señor, please! He is just a boy, let him be! Take me! The boy has never done anyone any harm!"

The robber shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"There are some real perverts out there, ma'am. Boys like this one are sold in a flash, and one so pretty will fetch quite a pretty penny. He's young and fit. I'll take him."

My heart beat out of my chest. I looked over to Abuela, who was sobbing and mouthing, "No, no, no…"

The man grabbed my arm and yanked me off the counter. He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them with shoelaces he had ripped from a pack.

"Walk." He said.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Please don't do this, sir." I whimpered.

"Walk." He commanded.

I slowly pushed my way out the door into the parking lot. I thought the thing was completely empty until I heard an engine turn over. There waited an old SUV with a burly woman behind the wheel. Normally, this isn't the first choice of a getaway vehicle, but with Officer Barbrady's uselessness, they could get halfway across the country and he would still be in South Park. The man pushed me into the back of the car.

"On the floor."

I looked in the other direction to see if there was anyone who could call for help.

"On the floor."

"My parents will find out, you know. And then you'll be in trouble, the both of ya'!"

The man smirked. "Look at this little cocksucker, he thinks he's fucking tough."  
He shoved my head against the window and put the barrel of his pistol to my temple. "How would you like it if I blew your brains out right now? Hell, I could probably fetch a high price for your brains on a canvas. Call it, 'Boy Who Tried Wolf'. Yeah, I'll be a world-class artist. Oh boy, you'd better have a fucking reason for me not to pull this trigger right now." He grunted.

I panicked and whined and sobbed. Fuck, what did I say that for!?

"Hey!" A voice cried out. It was Kenny. He sprinted out of the shop with murderous intent. Maybe he cares for me more than I know. No, he would have done this for anyone else.

The robber fired on him three times. The first two missed. The third lodged itself in his shoulder. He toppled over, clutching his wound and crying out an assortment of curses.

"Kenny!" I screamed.

"Grab him too," the woman mumbled in a southern drawl, "the more hostages, the better. And some perv'll be lookin' for a longhair."

The man bound Kenny's hands and dragged him towards the car. Kenny kicked and thrashed and screamed in pain. He threw the both of us onto the floor of the back of the car.

I sobbed as he screamed. His blood ran onto my chest. The man slammed the door shut and entered the car moments later, and off we went.

* * *

Kenny had stopped screaming about an hour ago. That's because a half-hour into the drive, he woman stopped the car to remove the bullet and put some cotton on the wound. He passed out on me. Poor fella' was tuckered out. I was too scared to fall asleep.

The car pulled to a halt.

"That station wagon's been behind us fer a while now." She slurred.

"Make a turn through this corn field. Get back on the road in a mile, and if they're still there, I'll kill 'em." The man replied.

I felt the swerve, meaning she followed without question. Not a second after we hit the road again, another vehicle collided with the side of ours.

Luckily, our position let the seats and door cushion us, but Kenny and I were still pelted with glass.

Someone belligerently yanked the door open and dragged the robber out. The driver hopped out to confront the assailant.

Kenny was jostled awake when bodies and fists slammed against the car, which was weird, since the collision would've woken up a sleeping whale. There were two gunshots, but the struggle continued. Eventually, all was quiet. I looked up at the hole where the window once was. Mr. Santiago's slumped face peeked in.

"Oh, _niños_, you are all good!" He laughs.

Kenny and I were unbelievably elated. We learned later that Mr. Santiago had gone into the back to get his rifle when he spotted the gun. He also called up his sons who work a few blocks away, just in case he needed backup. And he did. The three of them beat the living crap out of those thugs!

The old man really pulled through for us. Mr. Santiago took Kenny to the hospital, and he even helped my folks sue the criminals. Gee, I owe my life to Mr. Santiago. He and the missus are like family to the both of us.

* * *

Considering that I just told you everything about that day, I guess I don't need to tell you much about today at the shop. It was pretty mundane. Abuela brought us apple pie. Craig came in. Kenny followed him around the store in a successful attempt to annoy him. Mr. Santiago had a cramp in his ankle and had to lie down. Kenny got paid for the week.

Now we're at his house. He's taking a shower. I already took one, so now I'm just sitting on his bed in nothing but my socks. I stare out the window. I hope we can finish before 8:30. Dad'll be cross with me if I'm home late again.

Kenny trots out of the bathroom, ruffling his hair with his towel.

"You ready?" He asks with his same old seductive ferocity.

"Yeah." I mumble.

"Turn around then." He says, obviously not noticing my tone.

It would be nice if he would at least look me in the eye when I give up my dignity.

I'm used to the pain after. It's a good pain, honestly. I jump into my pants and pull on my sweater while he lights a cig.

"Who'll you have to entertain you this weekend?" I ask flatly, not even looking in his direction.

"Probably Red. She's been pretty thirsty lately." He chuckles. "I'll see you on Monday, right?"

"Yeah." I answer through my clenched teeth. "Monday."

I grab my backpack, shove my way out of his bedroom, and stomp into his living room. I've gotten used to the stench.

"Did he look you in the eye this time?"

I turn to the direction of the voice. It's Mr. McCormick. He's sitting on his couch, sipping his beer and watching some stupid reality show. I shake my head and bite my lip with a tear rolling down my cheek. He shakes his head and says, "Better luck next time."

And, the moment I walk out the door, an unimaginably painful, yet all too familiar stinging lashes across the scar on my eyelids.


	3. Butler, The (Pt 1)

And here we have Stan's POV. Sorry that this is taking long to update, I've been busy lately.

* * *

My eyes pry open to see red, curly hair. Kyle's Jew-fro. That's right, I used it as a pillow. Now I know how he sleeps like a rock. It's so fluffy and comfy. Plus, he gives off a lot of warmth, which you wouldn't expect from a skinny body.

That's right, we fell asleep on the couch. Saturday nights are our movie nights. We were watching _Red 2_, but he had a migraine and fell asleep during. I think I fell asleep near the end, too. I remember that Ike had joined us around the time when they were learning about the bomb. Oh yeah, he's at my foot. He's curled up in a ball like a dog in his little blue footie pajamas. You'd think that since he's ten now, he'd pick another pajama color… or type.

I prod Ike's back with my toe. One of his loitering eyes open slightly to meet mine.

"Mmm…?" He groans.

"Want breakfast, kiddo?" I mumble.

And as though he hadn't slept in the first place, he leaps onto his knees and squeals, "Pancakes!" He really loves my pancakes. In fact, the whole Broflovski family does. Kyle invited me to their reunion last year. Most of the family turned their noses up at me at first, since they expected Kyle to bring a lady friend. But when the time came for brunch, the head chef got sick, so I offered my services, despite a few mumbling protests. An hour behind the grill and a gallon of home-made pancake mix later, and everyone was trying to get me to visit some time and come back for the next reunion.

I gently place Kyle down against the cushions, ruffle Ike's hair, and lumber into the kitchen. Damn that "just woke up" feeling. I stretch my arms and legs and twist my back and neck. A man has to have his body working right. As I unload the ingredients onto the counter, I catch Ike peeking from the doorway in the corner of my eye. Why not entertain that little game of peek-a-boo; the one where you look over and the kid hides as fast as he can. When I look over, he seems to actually disappear at a sonic speed. Damn, he loves my pancakes.

Bring the flame! After five minutes of cooking, the first two pancakes slap a plate to cool. On cue, footsteps patter against the staircase. Mrs. Broflovski waltzes in, following the aroma of my pancakes.

"Mmm… Are those Stan Marsh's famous pancakes I smell?" She says in her shrill voice. It's not a bad thing, really. You get used to it.

"You know it is." I say, handing her the plate to have the first two. Ladies first. She graciously accepts and rushes over to the cupboard and fridge to get the syrup and butter. I can literally hear the glare Ike shoots at his mother's hands. Like a sting of the piano.

"Don't worry, little man, you're next." I say to him. His eyes dazzle and he scrambles over to the table. I don't know why he's acting like this is a rare event; I sleep here a lot and make breakfast a lot.

By the time I finish making Ike's pancakes, Mr. Broflovski trolls in. "Morning, bud. Any for me?"

"Sure, I just finished Ike's." I reply, placing Ike's plate in front of him. I snort as he attacks his breakfast like a carnivorous animal.

Footsteps resound from the doorway. I look over to see the object of my affection: Kyle.

He's up early. I think. I've neglected to look at the stove clock.

God, he's even beautiful when he's at the pinnacle of worst appearances: post wake-up. He retains his best physical qualities: plump lips, his smooth, flat belly, (which is revealed by his shirts that he shimmied out of due to overheating and are now draped around his concave hips) and of course, his radiant skin that not even chlorine could dull. Sometimes I wonder if, appearance-wise, I asked Kyle out because he looks like some androgynous Greek god or goddess.

I can tell he's still in pain. He's clutching his head and squinting, and he's a bit hunched over. He wobbles over to my and crashes his head on my shoulder.

"Good morning, sunshine." I mock.

"Fuck you." He grumbles. I wrap my arm around him and cook with the other.

"You okay, son?" His father asks.

"Head… hurt…" Kyle groans.

"You need some pills, _bubby_. Ike, go upstairs and get the Tylenol for your brother." Mrs. Broflovski says.

Ike obviously doesn't hear her, he's trapped in his own little world of dairy and flour.

"Ike."

He looks up, startled.

"Tylenol."

He wheels out of his seat and strides out with a pancake dangling from his mouth.

"Pancakes." Kyle grumbles.

On command, I finish off Mr. Broflovski's pancakes and move onto Kyle's. While I flip one into the air, I notice him sway. I might be a ninja and never knew it, because when he starts to fall, I catch him, swing around his hip, and catch the pancake in the pan. Ike, who just returned, drops the bottle of Tylenol in astonishment.

I shake Kyle a bit. "Kyle. Kyle, are you okay?" He stirs a bit and struggles to open his eyes once more.

"Nng… Yeah, yeah…"

"You need to go back to sleep, dude."

He shakes his head weakly. "Need food for the Tylenol…"

That's right, he needs food in his stomach to take this stuff. It's the heavy-duty one.

Mr. Broflovski strides over from his seat and slings Kyle's around his shoulder.

"You still need to lie down." He says, quietly helping Kyle out of the kitchen to the couch.

There's just the sizzling of the pan for a minute or two.

"Poor baby. I wonder what's wrong with him." Mrs. Broflovski says.

"It's this weather. Drastic changes in the atmospheric pressure cause migraines to people who're prone to them. Shelley had to stay in her dorm room all day yesterday from one."

I shut off the flame under the pan and flip the golden-brown discs of pleasure onto a plate for the love of my life. Before taking breakfast to Kyle, I glance at the clock. 7:00. Crap, church starts in two hours.

Let's see, I still need food. Screw it, I'm a big man, I can eat later. But I should stick with Kyle, make sure he takes his medicine. Let's call that a half-hour. Getting home would take too much time, my parents would be out the door already. Good thing Kyle and I basically half-moved into each other's houses. I have an assortment of different clothes scattered among his drawers and closets, and I reserved half of my dresser for him. So a shower here and getting dressed, that's another half-hour. My Honda Civic's outside, the church is across town. If I take the right route, that's twenty minutes, but I can't predict how church-goers will fuck things up.

I sit down in front of Kyle's legs and slide his meal over to him. With whatever strength he can muster, he sits up and shoves a pancake into his mouth. Ike trots over and hands me the bottle of Tylenol. A pancake and a half later and I pop two pills into Kyle's mouth, which he downs without even asking for a drink. I kiss his forehead and say, "I have to go to church, okay?"

He groans. "I wanna go…"

My 180 becomes a 360.

"Beg pardon?"

See, Kyle's Jewish, if you haven't realized by now. He only goes to church with me for funerals. And let's not forget the crippling migraine.

"Lemme go with you." He mumbles.

"You have a migraine. I'm guessing you have a death wish if you wanna be surrounded by a bunch of pious, yodeling hicks in their Sunday best." Saying that makes me feel like Craig.

"I'll be fine." Kyle leans back on the cushion. "I wanna go." He whines.

Before I can fight this any more, he puts on his world-famous pout. His wide, sparkling eyes, his mouth becoming an upside-down u-shape, his light blush and his awkwardly furrowed brow.

Damn, he's cute. Puppy cute.

"Alright, but you're going home the moment you doze off." I groan. "Go shower."

"You first." He gripes.

I twitch. "Then go iron your clothes."

"You do it." He mewls while turning onto his stomach.

Am I talking to a fucking cat here?

I roll my eyes. "Okay, lazy." I scoff. He sticks his tongue out at me as I head upstairs to his room.

* * *

Sometimes I yelp when I walk into this room. You'd think I'd get used to all the Japanese plushies, walls lined with pictures of either Kyle's photo shoots or him and me on dates at the carnival, basketball posters, and the desk littered with various posts and guides. But I don't. I haven't. And quite frankly, I never will. I can see why Ike wakes up in the middle of the night screaming sometimes.

I open the closet and scope out Kyle's collared blue shirt and tan slacks. They're always next to my Sunday Best: a licorice-black blazer, a plain white formal shirt, and corresponding licorice-black capris.

Yeah, I know I made that bit kind of anticlimactic, but we can't all be models and get bombarded with free clothes.

I jog back into the hallway to get the iron and ironing board from the linen closet when I smash into Ike, who topples into the bathroom and hits his head on the toilet.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I squeak, grabbing him by the arm and helping him back to his feet. He snatches his arm away.

"Are you trying to give everyone a headache today!?" He snaps. "Goddamn, mother of fucking Christ…" He mutters, stomping into the room. I wince. Does irritability run in the family?

I shake my head and snatch the board and appliance from the linen closet. Heading back to Kyle's room, I glance at the clock. 7:37. That much time could not have passed… could it?

Crap, forget God, _Mom_ will strike me down if I'm late. I've only gotten away with getting in late once or twice, and that was because a hymn was going on and no one could hear the door slam. I look over to Ike, who's on the top bunk, rubbing his temples.

"Ike, could you iron our clothes?" I plead. Of course, he shakes his head.

"I'll give you ten bucks."

"Thirty."

"Twenty."

"Done." You little shit. I regret feeding you. Of course, I don't say it out loud. I never do.

The child hops off his bed and falls to his knees. I guess he forgot that he's in pain. I scrambles over to the ironing board. Tossing off my clothes, I stride over to the bathroom.

Which reminds me of a good reason as to why Kyle and I are moving. I can't tell you how many times Ike has walked in on Kyle and me. I think the phrase "tossing the salad" has been carved into his mind with a dagger of rainbow fire. Oddly descriptive, I know.

I turn on the hot water and let it rain over my raven hair. It's weird that no matter what temperature it is outside, I always want a hot shower. Even that time when Cartman released a Blaze from Minecraft. That was just as crazy as you may have imagined it.

I lean back against the shower tiles and let my chin drop to my chest. I wonder how Wendy's doing. I wonder how she'll react to us moving. Maybe I should have told her before I had even asked Kyle. Then maybe there would be less of a chance of her going Chernabog on us.

If we're lucky, she'll just take the reins of our affairs again. She did it when she saw Kyle and me holding hands for the first time. I have no idea what she had taught Kyle when she dragged him away and kept him away for the next week, but I was sure as hell ready to check if he suddenly had gender reassignment surgery. I'm guessing he learned how to be a girlfriend.

Which I didn't ask for, because I really did want to try having a boyfriend. But whatever.

I still love Wendy. But I also love Kyle. Even though they can both act like bitches. But really, who doesn't? Besides, I don't see why that would ever be enough to make anyone stop loving anyone.

"Boo!"

The curtain flies open. I yelp as my knees buckle. This is what I get for that "clutch your pearls" comment the other day.

It's Kyle. Goddammit!

He's standing up straight, so I guess the Tylenol kicked in fast.

Oh, he's naked. Is he gonna join me then?

"Don't do that!" I squawk at him. He raspberries, steps into the shower, and leans against me.

"Booh. I was just having a little fun." He coos. Okay, fine, whatever. I wrap my arms around his waist and collapse to my feet, bringing him with me.

I love that we're so intimate now. We can shower together, we can make nothing of serious situations, we basically live together. And we're both guys, so I don't have to give him the privacy I would if he were a female. It's so nice. That's an up-side to this relationship. No restrictions between us.

"Hey, remember our first time? It was right here, in this spot." I chuckle, though Kyle squirms a bit, as though a ghost is going to pop out from under him.  
"Remember how I thought that the water was a substitute for lube and—"

"Ah-la-la-la-la-can't hear you!" He cries.

It was painful. For the both of us. Even for the water.

I run my fingers through his soggy scarlet locks.

"Your hair is so pretty." I whisper.

"I know." He says matter-of-factly. Wow, okay. He could have said "thanks", but whatever.

Instead of telling him, I distract myself by nibbling his ear. His shoulders streak across my chest as he squirms from the tickle of my teeth.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Stan."

* * *

The good news is that Kyle's migraine has completely subsided. The bad news is that Officer Barbrady is holding up traffic for some reason I don't understand.

I slam my head on the wheel. I've been told I'm an irritable driver, but we've been in the same place for fifteen fucking minutes.

I grit my teeth and try to fight the urge to get out and drag Barbrady across the street.

"Calm down, dude." Kyle buzzes.

I exhale sharply. "Yes, Princess."

He purses his lips. "Why does everyone call me 'Princess'?"

"Because you're so fabulous." I half-lie. I lean over and kiss him. The cheeky smile that spreads across his lips tells me that the answer satisfies him.

Of course, the moment I decide to look away from the road is the moment Barbrady finishes whatever the hell he was doing, as well as the moment when some jackass decides to honk me down until I move. I jab my middle finger into the air. In my mirror, I catch a glimpse of the culprit. Clyde and Craig. They must be carpooling. Craig returns the bird as I speed forward.

"Remember our first kiss?" Kyle randomly asks.

Of course I remember. I remember it clearly. I threw up on him.

I was too nervous. We were fourteen. It was a bit late after two years of dating, but we were put under the impression that taking things slow would result in the perfect relationship. We went to the NBA Playoffs. It came to Denver, thankfully, so the ride wasn't long.

Sadly, our seating was atrocious. We were landed smack in the middle of a bunch of terrible white-trash drunks who couldn't control their tempers and ended up fighting each other a few times. We were about to leave when the kiss-cam scoped the two of us out.

First of all, who drops the kiss cam on a couple of fourteen year-old boys? I feel like someone should have gotten sued. Second, worst timing. Kyle was gung-ho to kiss me, since the night sucked and a kiss would make it all worth it. I, however, glanced behind me to see if someone stabbed me in the gut.

That's pretty much what it felt like.

And, when Kyle finally puckered up and leaned in, my stomach evacuated its contents all over his face and jacket. Mother of God, it felt like the two years were just flying out of my throat.

Everyone in the stadium turned from the screen to either point and laugh or shake their heads and whisper. I'm fairly sure Kyle was about to knock me right out, but he lowered his fist and began to empathize when he saw my eyes start to leak. In fact, I started to sob. I sobbed at the hundreds who mocked us, even though they knew better. I sobbed that those wasted years and the worry that it was all over. But most of all, I sobbed because I let Kyle down.

I ran away as quick as humanly possible. I had to. I had to run away from that seat, away from those people. Away from Kyle.

* * *

I sat on the floor of the corridor, hugging my knees and wailing into them. God, I felt like such a pussy. And with the air smelling of piss, obviously the product of the poorly-cleaned bathroom nearby, I really felt like I had hit rock-bottom.

I pulled out my phone to call Dad. No response. I called Mom. No response. I called Shelly. She tried telling me to piss off, but I told her my situation and she told me she was on her way. Her sudden change of heart tells me that she's been there before. Well, maybe not exactly, but close to it.

I just had to go home. Go somewhere. Hell, I could die, I didn't care!

"Stop being a pussy, man."

I looked up. Kyle was standing in front of me. He wiped off as much of the vomit as he could some time before coming to me.

I sniffled and looked down at my scuffed Converses. "Are you gonna break up with me, Kyle?" I gurgled. God, I was pathetic back then.

He scowled. "If you keep being a little bitch."

I wiped my eyes swiftly while he dropped onto his rear and slid next to me.

"You threw up on Wendy all the time and didn't cry like this."

"This was different."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"Then don't say it was." He snapped.

We sat in silence until he raised his leg, ripped a huge fart, and fanned it at me. You can imagine how grossed out I was, but what intrigued me was that this was the most boyish thing we had done in a while.

"Agh, sick, dude!" I howled as I pinched my nose.

"Now we're even." He groaned. I'm sure he wasn't proud of doing what he did.

I socked him in the arm. He returned it, just harder. And more deserved. Even so, I tackled him, and soon we ended up grappling for dominance.

I glanced to check the hallway for signs of life, just so we wouldn't make any bigger asses of ourselves.

"Whoever stays on top…" I paused, trying to think of the perfect wager for this moment.

"Whoever stays on top gets to _be _on top until we're twenty!" Kyle blurted out.

Yes. Yes. YES. "Deal!" I shouted.

This little skirmish went on for what I'd say was ten minutes before I finally pinned Kyle to the ground. I didn't expect Kyle to have so much strength left inside him.

"You… lose…" I panted as I sat myself down on his belly.

"Do I have an extra life?" He purred. I didn't even realize the homoerotic situation that was going on until he said it.

"No," I gasped, "But you do get to play the bonus round."

Corny, but it worked like a charm.

I shifted onto his groin and leaned down to my lover's face. Our hot breaths battled each other the way we just did. The ginger's face brightened into a beautiful pink. He parted his lips to receive mine. It was an alien sensation, our lips meeting for the first time. As I rolled my tongue along his, I slowly maneuvered along every taste bud, remembering them, painting them in my mind, as though I would never feel them again. Our once-battling breaths became a single entity, a phoenix that soared back and forth between our lungs. Our body heat should have incinerated the floor. But it didn't. Kyle moaned into my mouth, and I returned a masculine grunt. We rolled over so that he was on my front, not letting our lips part once.

That is, until I threw him off and scrambled to the bathroom to throw up again. No good moment goes unspoiled. I have to say, I'm pretty astounded that he stayed with me after that, and not a word of it, too.

* * *

And now we're here. Kyle carved out chunks of his lifestyle for me. I'd tell him that I don't care what he looks like or that he didn't have to change for me, but it would break his heart, wouldn't it? I love him to death.

"Ugh, don't remind me." I say to Kyle, despite having just spun that entire tale to you.

"Hey, come on, you got a lot better at kissing me later on."

I smirk, proudly puffing my chest out a bit. I did get better, didn't I?

We're finally at the church. Twenty minutes late. Great.

On the way in, I spot the Stotch family rushing into the pews. They, of all people, are never late.

Kyle and I slide into the pew in the very back of the church. To our side is the Tweak family. Tweek and Mr. Tweek glance at Kyle, and the young Jew fidgets at the drop of their jaws. I sneer at them in a successful attempt to get them to stop. At least, Tweek stops, because pressuring another person would make him a complete hypocrite.

I look to the left and spot Wendy, who's preoccupied with fixing her hair into a ponytail. I try to scope out my parents. Kyle stirs in his seat from Mr. and Mrs. Tweak's whispering. There they are. My parents, the fourth left pew from the front. Next to the McCormicks and the Tuckers. I don't think they saw when we came in. I'd like to keep it that way.

"And now, I would like to identify those who we must keep in our prayers." Priest Maxi says. "Paul Sades, who just lost his family in a coach bus crash on the interstate. Vajj Aina, who—" He freezes in his unspoken embarrassment. The church comes to life with snickers and giggles.

"Ahem—anyway… Stan Marsh…"

My heart skips a beat or two.

"Who has just received a scholarship to the University of Denver…"

I sigh in relief. With a glance, I see that Wendy is flashing a huge grin and staring at the priest. She hasn't noticed me, but she seems to be happy for me.

"…And is moving to Denver with his partner, Kyle Broflovski."

Crap.

I sink into my seat, hoping to God that I haven't been noticed. Another glance at Wendy, she's turned to gritting her teeth and clenching her fist. Is it me, or is "A Night on Bald Mountain" playing?

I glance at the Tweak family. Please, please don't do anything stu—

"He's over here!" Kyle yells out.

You son of a bitch.

The disciples of the church turn to our corner. About half of the crowd claps and cheers for us. Others seem confused, probably as to why Kyle's here.

I give a sheepish wave and try not to prolong this attention. I think all of my schoolmates are here, except for Damien and Pip, of course. Funny story about Pip, though I'll keep it short since it's not relevant. See, even God hated him, so he was sent to Hell, and there, he and Damien actually developed a romantic relationship. Soon after, he got Satan to grant Pip life again. Pretty neat.

"Would you mind coming up to the podium?" The Priest asks warmly.

No.

"Yes." Kyle squeals.

No, no, no.

He grabs my wrist and drags me out of the pew.

No.

Sometimes I wish I were Craig. I could just flip them all off and that would be the end of it.

Trying not to seem like a baby, I release my weight and join my boyfriend in his stride to the front of the room.

Priest Maxi steps aside to let us stand in front of the microphone. I'd like to clock him for keeping this attention on us, but he'd just be a victim of circumstance. And assault.

"If you wouldn't mind, I think some people may have some questions for you."

"Sure, shoot." I sigh.

I scan the raised hands. Tweek, Red, Mr. Stotch, Ruby, Cartman, Kevin, Mr. Garrison, Officer Barbrady, and finally, Wendy. I think it's best to go by the lowest octane rating first.

I point to Ruby.

"Which one of you bought it?" The pre-teen asks.

"We both did." I say, wrapping my arm around Kyle's shoulder.

Kyle points to Red.

"Don't you have to be eighteen to buy a house?"

"Well, yeah, but we paid up front in cash, and that kind of makes it easier to avoid the technicalities." He replies. I can tell that neither of us want to get into the mechanics of law and purchasing property.

I point to Tweek.

"Nng… You'll still come see us, right, guys?"

I grin. These questions aren't half-bad.

"Don't worry. We're finishing our school year here, and we'll visit as much as we can."

Kyle points to Barbrady.

"You promise?"

"We promise." He chuckles.

I point to Cartman. Kyle discretely, yet powerfully, stomps on my foot. I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and swallow my yelp.

"You hid it from Wendy."

Silence. All is silent.

"That wasn't a question."

"And_ that _wasn't an answer."

I sigh at the fatass. "What are you trying to do?"

He raises an eyebrow. Oh boy, here comes one of his villainous monologues. "You shouldn't imply that I'm trying to do anything, Stan. You claim to still love Wendy, like any good ex should. Yet you didn't tell her that you were moving in with your daywalking Jew ass-whore-"

I raise a finger to Kyle before he can release hellfire.

"You left her for a _dude_, in fact, and then you didn't tell her anything."

Wendy and Cartman never agree on anything. In fact, I think Wendy hates Cartman more than hate can actually exist. So why is he basically spinning out every word in her head, which is basically confirmed by her crossing her arms and nodding in the background?

"So I have two questions for you. Just two. First question: do you love Wendy?"

"Yes." Of course I do.

"Second question: Who do you love _more_?"

You sneaky asshole. This was your plan all along. If I refuse your question, I'll be questioned about it more. If I say nothing, I could hurt both Wendy and Kyle. If I answer truthfully…

Wait. What is the truth?

"Shut up fatass! Why would you ask something like that!?" Kyle barks. He knows that I can't answer something like that.

"You shut up, you dirty Jew! I wasn't talking to you!"

"Answer the question." Dad. Mom jabs him in the gut, but it was put out there already. Why, Dad? Just… fucking… why?

"Yeah, I'm curious as well." Mr. Garrison chimes in.

"Yeah, tell us, dude." Clyde calls out.

And among the rest of the requests to answer that comes in, Priest Maxi whispers, "…Maybe you should answer. You're kind of in a tight spot here, kiddo."

Oh, you're such a great goddamned help.

The room becomes a maelstrom of orders for the truth. I think I'm gonna be sick. My head's spinning. My legs are weak. Dammit, Cartman!

"I… I…"

Wendy's sharp eyes pierce my forehead like an arrow. Is the room spinning? I think it's spinning. I clutch the sides of the podium for support.

"Got you. The both of you." Mouths Cartman.

Through all of the chaos and confusion, I shoot a shockwave of a glare at the fatass.

The air feels dark and heavy and cold. But my skin feels warm. Like a heat wave battling a blizzard. The room goes silent for just this split second. The only ones here are me and him. I feel like a puppeteer. And he's a marionette.

Reality again. I think everyone just felt that, because every word that is said is chopped in half with an abrupt stop. Cartman leaps from his seat and shrieks. Everyone turns to the overweight boy, who is clutching his chest and panting. Without a clear word, though I do hear him mumble something like, "Screw you guys, I'm going home" he scrambles out of the pew and out of the church.

With Cartman as a distraction, I blurt out, "I think we shouldn't waste any more of God's time with questions!"

I grab Kyle's wrist, brush past Priest Maxi, and tug my ginger sweetheart back to the pew. We receive some glances and whisper here and there, a few people try to stop us and get me to answer the question, but for once, Kyle plays along and pretends that we have more urgent things to do.

* * *

Kyle had more fun than I had expected. With his migraine gone, the hymns lifted his spirits. We learned that the Tweek's don't follow any single religion, and rather, they mix a bunch of practices from religions around the world. Kyle was promised many gifts from various townspeople for the move, probably because he's so adorable.

Also, Wendy decided to shift over to our side of the room. She was pissed at me, I'm surprised that she wasn't generating steam, but rather than blowing her stack, she kind of invited herself over two our new house, so I'm going to pick her up at 2:00. I have to go to the optometrist first.

11:00. Time for a half-hour intermission.

"…And you're going to need granite counter tops to balance out the "cool" color scheme of the kitchen." I hear as I slightly pay attention to Wendy. Kyle's writing down everything she's saying. He must really like her ideas. I'd pay more attention, but I'm not even in the mood right now. My head's still swimming.

"Stan." I look up. It's Dad. Mom's standing next to him. "Hope you made it on time."

"As if I had a choice." I murmur, glancing at Mom. She elbows him when he starts snickering.

"Anyway, sorry about putting you on the spot there, son."

"It's okay, Dad. It was just Cartman being a dick again. You know how it goes."

"You remember your appointment to get that checked out, right?" Mom says.

"Yeah, Mom. I don't want this getting any worse." I groan, rubbing my temples.

South Park isn't a stranger to the strange. The doctors I've visited have found that I have a mutation. Apparently, it's a bit of a phenomenon. Doctor's slang calls it "Ghost Eye". It's a bit similar to Craig's mutated power, just with less mind control and less shooting laser beams.

I don't remember the details, but the summary is that at high levels of stress, I can make people feel dizzy or shocked by glaring at them while making eye contact. The drawbacks are that when it happens, it happens by accident, and it increases my susceptibility to stress-related medical problems. In fact, I was told I had a heart attack once and slipped into a coma. I wasn't denying it when I woke up in a hospital bed and saw that three weeks had passed.

I guess I'm more stressed than I know.

"Stan, do you want our game systems to be above or under the TV?" Kyle asks.

"Huh? Oh, under." I answer in an uncaring mumble.

"But you'll need that cabinet space for the game boards and stereo." Wendy interjects.

Jeez, this is starting to sound a bit expensive. "Are we gonna be able to afford this?"

"I know a guy. He'll hook you up with all this stuff at less than half the cost. Kyle will just have to put in extra hours at the country club. Maybe dress up extra-nicely to rake in modeling agents."

What? Kyle shouldn't have to put in extra hours. His shifts are already on Monday and Thursday evenings, as well as alternate Sundays. I tutor on weekdays, but my pay doesn't cut it.

"If it's for Stan, I'll do it." Kyle puts forth.

So many mixed vibes from this kid. One moment he's too lazy to iron his own clothes, the next he's about to put in extra hours just so we can have nice things we don't need.

Wait, I know why. He has motivation. It's a little implied agreement. Whenever Kyle does a good deed or two, I impulsively jump his bones at some point during that day. Call it a reward. Kyle seems to be willing to do anything for me because it usually benefits us both.

I smooch Kyle on the forehead. "You don't have to, you know…"

He leans on my shoulder and purrs. "I don't, but I know what I get in return."

I tense up. Bull's-eye.

Though I guess I can't blame him. We haven't made love in two weeks, which is a year in relevance to our average nightly escapades. And I'm a pretty good lover if I do say so myself.

"You wanna step out?" I ask. He nods. I excuse us from Wendy's presence. She starts tapping away at her iPhone, probably to her girlfriends for advice.

Damn you Priest Maxi.

* * *

Mother of God, this is taking forever to write. I had to split it into two parts so that this fanfic wouldn't look dead. _

Anyway, I'm enjoying writing Stan's POV. He keeps a lot of thoughts to himself, which helps me practice being more descriptive or trying to engage the reader more.


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